The Pomger Games
by Starry's Light
Summary: Twenty-four pomeranians of the same Pom are cast into a prison, where they will fight and love and eke out every little emotion they could possibly provoke in an effort to show that they have real life brimming inside of them. Oneshot.


**Hello! My name is Starry's Light, and I'm about to blow you away with one of the strangest little stories you may ever see. (although, all of my crossovers are pretty strange altogether.) I basically deserve no credit because all I did was make twenty-four Poms (all from Pom, of Pom Gets Wi-Fi) on a Hunger Games Simulator. I only interpreted what the simulation told me and accidentally made a (somewhat) emotional story out of it. ;w; I mean, I cried, but I'm overly emotional. I get no say.  
So! Here you go. Crazy Pom Gets Wi-Fi twist on an established book series where one of its finest gimmicks is of twenty-four teenagers killing each other until only one is left. How wonderful.**

The Pomger Games

Under the shady pretense of a bright light, shining and glittering its blinding self upon the forty-eight eyes of twenty-four dogs, capsule-like objects enclosed via the lubricant glimmer of glass and suspended to withhold a single pup underneath by a wiry stand of steely blue, a cold blue, almost like ice. Each pup appeared on the cusp of identical. Remarkably tiny in comparison to the vast surroundings that thus far so nobly advanced, not to mention freakishly tall trees when a single pup was perhaps as long as a root: wrangle four and maybe they'd produce a long enough scale; autumn-leaf-orange furs primed of curls and ringlets that glistened under the hard work and preparation eked into them; and the identical flowery pink clip upon a triangular ear, scratched on the same plastic petals in each pinned position.

The only difference among the otherwise practically cloned pomeranians were the looping, black-laminated tags adorned over a silvery chain, resting perched in the fur of their necks and bearing a single, pristine white number, varying the degree of one to twenty-four, all in numerical order in their semicircle, and spelled out with the whole number itself, as letters were choppy and messy.

Pom 1 scratched at her head lamely in the use of a bright orange foreleg, the pads squishing into her furry skull and thus not removing the annoying itch that had embedded into her head. She pined about it; the hollow cry bubbled about inside of her pocket of a chamber and eventually toned down. Nobody but she heard it.

Well, maybe a gamemaker or two. But who knew what the hell they were, anyways. Great danes? Shiba inus, maybe? Or a husky; a nice, strong husky. Chihuahua. They had so many damn choices on who to recreate and bound into the human being office used for these sorts of things. Just—just look at the technology input on _glass._ The _glass_ of all things. It was evident whomever had been assorted to fill the role of forcing twenty-four autumn-colored pomeranians had to sit in their fancy spinny chair, situated and eased in the front of a shiny new laptop with all the latest editions and crappy, glitched updates that had yet to be worked out, because that was how it was with laptops and the newest system. For the most part.

Why did technology have to be so complex and give out so many updates, anyways? They were like Santa Claus, in that way. Fucking Santa Claus.

Besides, could dogs handle this kind of math needed for computer hardware? Or whatever the hell it was?

Actually, they could. All twenty-four had laptops; all twenty-four accessed social media regularly. Here their lives would truly begin.

Whatever the case, twenty-four dogs of almost identical proportions—by the by, Poms 12 and 24 were male, just for fun—sat and lazed about idiotically in their glass cases like fat gerbils with nothing to do, barking their asses off every once in awhile, until a string of siren screeches rung round and round in and about the semicircle of female—and male—dogs. The bubbles of glass thinned and waned into their cups of openings once more, allowing the newly set-free animals to do so as they wished in life, as long as it involved murdering their partners as brutally and morbidly as doggedly possible. Which, of course, saying they were all copied pomeranians who were fairly stupid, didn't hold much promise.

Eventually, one of them, microscopically more heavyset than the rest; tiny, pink tongue lolling about its mouth and face and leaving a ring of spiking drool to cover and flay its fur—pressed a tentative, twig-like, fur-rolled paw along the lines of the grassy meadow they stood in, and, pressing its beady nose against atmosphere, breathed in the heavenly scent of food. Where was the food? Pom 20 didn't quite know the details yet, but damn, she wanted some _food._ She damn _loved food._ It was pretty damn _tasty._

Regally lifting her microscopically more flabby snout into free air, she looked about ready to waltz into a kitchen and feast with the gods, when the siren blared again and sent twenty-four peculiar, tiny, hairy specimen reeling in all directions, whimpering pathetically as some fearfully dragged their asses against the dirt while others barged into portly trees as some means of escape, an escape they couldn't access because they were dogs and dogs didn't know how to climb trees.

An estimated eight of the original twenty-four spirited away from the shadows and the squealing of metal-on-metal and freakish siren trying to scare something into them, make them actually, you know, _do something_ , and they ran off to the wonderful fantasies of who-knows-where. A few bounced skulls against trees, but their chipper, shrill cries kept on coming, kept on running, and the other Poms, so busy with their own fucked lives, didn't bat an eye at the absurd crowd of puffballs.

Rearing its ugly, shining head far above the miniature pomeranian dogs, a basket-like steel-weaved substance shone and blotted out a vast majority of sun. Well, artificial sunshine. Who the hell would let twenty-four pomeranians roam about with real light shining over their shoulders? Real light? Why real light? Artificial was that much easier to congeal and procure. Still, whether gleaming in artificial or actual sunbeams, the steaming structure gouging ugly, heavy shadows into pitiful grasses suggested destruction over its incompetent sitting and dumb, bovine appearance.

Like a cow dressed in metal. Sure, a gigantic cow, but still a cow, only the cornucopia had no need of sustenance, as it happened to be a mere inanimate object. Yeah. Yeah. Really? Inside of its hollow crater of a mouth bellowing opening held a great stock of foods and other precious metals gleaming in one's eye, only most of the autumn dogs didn't notice this as they were busy freaking out of their skulls and bashing heads into trees. Hell, one of them probably died from that. Its slumped, lone figure and amount of hefty blood trickling from the top of its head suggested as such.

The few that did register a need or at least requirement of materials that would surely be useful later on in this strange forest set off slowly and struggled with their idiot dog anxieties that for the most part didn't exist. Few petty squabbles established; mostly the buffoons stared at one another, exchanging pathetic glances, and meandered off into the distance. Some evidently had enough of a brain to nab a bag; others, to nab a bag with crap actually in it. But again, the supposed bloodbath was total chaos of hysterical bitches and the two who happened to be males, so it wasn't like those in control of these games expected all that much. The question: why bother?

Under the pressure of tumult and terror, some other dogs shed blood and ultimately lost lives—too stupid or hysterical, again with the hysterical—to do much about it except run cold, red terror and sweat and then stop moving as they had run out. But only a precious few. The morsels of flesh still hot and beating via the throbbing heart within would surely craft more of a spectacle later on. At least, that was what the gamemakers silently begged for, as they had created these twenty-four Poms and forced them into the artificial woodland as was, and in order to provide entertainment, twenty-three would have to be abolished at some point or another. All of them. All but one. Dead. No more. Bye-bye. Didn't matter. Something like that.

All ensued within the universe of struggle and the struggle to understand—especially how much _even_ a dog _can't—_ Pom 20 raised a thin paw and voraciously rubbed at an underbelly of batter-orange coloring, like cookies iced in delicate frosting. Only Pom 20 had no care for delicate frosting; damn, she was hungry, and she'd gnaw off the frosting whether it raw or impeccable. Didn't matter. Damn. Food. She damn loved food. It was damn tasty, no? Oh yeah it was.

At some point in time, the sun actually begun to move and mark its little sunny path down the basin of the sky, tottering dangerously toward the end of the dome of a world, to which it would soon signal night. Stars poked the horizon like baby fingerprints, and they reminded Pom 20 of cheese. Not really sure why. She just exceptionally liked the taste of chopped up dairy coagulated from milk. Whatever the process. She wasn't exactly bright, but food was a stilted forte she took pride in. Raising her microscopically larger snout, she barked cheerily into the dying horizon, and no dogs barked back, as the ones remaining lucidly sat in dripping puddles of their own blood, as they had gone and fucked it up and died.

Maybe three—four. Four at the highest. Pom 20 didn't damn count. Screw counting. She just saw some fuzzy corpses and, twitching the hind leg that correlated with the fore, sprung muscles into motion other than jaw and saliva glands. The pitter-patter of orange-peel paws served her into the midst of a springtime field of thin grass, like that of a bald human being's head, or those creepy cats that had no fur, couldn't forget those cats, led Pom 20 into where she truly desired to be:

under the shade of the cornucopia  
with all of that damn food.

Scattered and frantic, orange puffballs left their storage of nutrients remarkably untouched. Would've been suspiciously untouched if the dogs hadn't simply overreacted like the fucking idiots they all were—the original Pom herself was a dumb soul who sold her life to the Internet before losing it—so greedily, and giddily, the quadrupedal dragged dull claws over metal flooring, and, after accidentally producing a _grreeeeeEEEEEEEEEEECH_ that would've blinded her if sounds procured loss of sight, she scuttled in and found herself a nice, fat satchel, soon overloaded by an assortment of all sorts of food groups, from entire packets of raw meat with the seal and everything to apples and oranges and bananas to canned beans, what the hell would a tiny dog do with a can of beans?

Momentarily satisfied and boringly plucking her gaze and scratching it across fields of raw materials that weren't food and were otherwise shit to her, Pom 20 plumped up her soft-green bag and, after finding a feast of a meal from the cornucopia's innards of other materials, settled into a deep sleep that included drool.

Night hadn't fully lapsed until a couple more imprudent doggies had collided fates and, unfortunately, some three of four of them lost their lives too. Yeah, why don't all of the fucking dogs just die now? Either way, a majority of autumn-colored, fleshy puffballs were left under the privilege of owning their lives still, and so the blaring siren of night was called to a start, and magically—no, sorry, not magically, _scientifically,_ how superficial and dull and mind-ruining—day blended into night and the sun went missing.

Sirens that had been wailing ended, as most of the dogs began rabidly growling and barking to hear that dreaded sound again, and in its place some theme song from some long-forgotten video game tuned to their ears, at least shutting up their freakish behavior for another five seconds. Some Poms had been killed, obviously, so silent helicopters went to work retrieving their lost corpses monotonously like they were dishrags instead of living bodies, but obviously none of the dead ones were remarkable creatures because the main characters being killed at the beginning really damn ruined it.

Nope, all was at peace under the shade of night. Pom 20 snored rather loudly in her new man cave.

Somewhere off into the blank distance, a proportionally regular-shaped creature molded of orange furs and flesh rubbed tiny paws and warmed their furry surfaces against an open flame. Thankfully, this Pom was strangely and terrifyingly smart and knew how to set out the flames as well once slumber took its toll, or else she'd set the whole fucking forest on fire and kill everyone within the next hour or so. Planning and silently calculating, figuring, how she'd murder some of the idiotic souls left behind, Pom 14's face, shadowed beneath the cusp of moonlight and shade, grinned a little hastily at the thought.

Although she didn't know much, she knew more than most Poms, and understood the weight of the situation: kill everyone else; go home. Then she'd get out of the forest and use her laptop to do less productive things like check her facewoof account.

All Poms came from one single mind, and that mind gave them their rounded basis: love for technology. And that was all. The experience each Pom wended through would provide and reveal their specific personalities, or reveal the only ones with actual personalties, but until then everyone but the male dogs looked like stupid bitches. The males were still stupid but not bitches.

Under the shadow, further into the undergrowth than other pomeranians had dared gone, the pair from District Two—although really, who's counting—softly traipsed betwixt roots and trees and leaves, glancing up into pockets of pockmarked skies and gazing into one another's eyes as the stars filled pools of luminous blue orbs.

Yep. Poms 3 and 4 were in love.  
You bet it's possible.

Paws pressed close together, they whispered their lovely words into the other and grinned rapturously, obviously full of the other Pom. Somewhere around a bushel, a single and final creature to round out those of special importance was, as it read on placid white tinkling above black lamination, a block-written and stiff 5.

Somewhere betwixt the cusp of evening and morning, each of Poms 12 and 24, also known as the two males, had gotten themselves killed, whether underneath the paws or stone of another or falling into a pit. How pathetic. It appeared that Poms were not suited to be of the other gender, odd and random of a fact it was. Their deaths silently allowed all living ones remained to be called a singular, unison term of "bitch," so if anyone was happy about it, that happened.

As well, a random and hilarious outcome was how many Poms regained their senses, began to question the sanity of this predicament, and then proceeded to fall into a frozen lake and drown. Apparently that either meant no autumn leaf of a dog could question the sanity of the situation, or sanity had been fucked and questioning it just proved this the most obvious of sorts: don't question something that wasn't meant to be questioned or you fall into a completely random frozen lake and drown. And die, basically. Unless getting fucked is something prized and revered, just go along with the twenty-four clones. And by the chance you do gain reason and logic, quick, run away from any frozen lake in sight, or it will be the bane of your existence!

Because that made sense.  
See, this is why those who questioned The Pomger Games's logic fell into frozen lakes.

Throughout the time of the night, from sunset to sunrise, some two or three other pomeranians stumbled into the clutches of one of the few of whom actually owned weapons, either crudely forged, as dogs couldn't forge things all that well for the lack of thumbs, or found and used wisely enough from the lip of the cornucopia, prior to Pom 20's taking of it.

Although anyone could clutch all of the crap they wanted by now, so long as it wasn't food, as the bumbling glutton had sleepwalked with her pouch of sustenance and now nobody knew where she'd rumbled off to. How efficient of her. Not.

Hints of either illusions of worrisome growth defects or perhaps simply over-reactive imaginations or maybe a mixture of those or maybe something obscure and unlisted—whatever this anomaly could be, a share of other, less significant creatures caught whiffs of what may have been smoke and a few threatened to say they had caught the sight of flames licking upon their eyeballs, which was funny, because no flames or smoke or any of the sort glowed inside of the restless midnight gloom. Although partially worrisome, most did nothing about the situation, albeit rumored a sponsor or so—who the hell would sponsor a _dog—_ sent canteens of special medicinal reliefs for those who claimed to act like a fucking dumbass. It happened sometimes.

Once that had been settled, dawn mechanically _vrrrrrr_ ed in onto piercing blue daylight of a screen and out hatched waking puffballs. Some of autumn, others of scarlet, and a few of muddy coloring. It had been a long night; the first night, and all twenty-four pomeranians must have felt the deprivation of laptop and social media inside of their bodies stirring to break loose and control them in a mindless frenzy.

It seemed, though, that the majority of those brain-sucking fools had already been killed in the sparse "bloodbath" or simply fell down a ditch or, if reasonable, in a frozen lake and out of oxygen. Poms weren't reasonable; Poms weren't males; and those Poms who couldn't stand the loss of technology impaired beyond repair and therefore dead. They all obviously didn't matter and had none of that aforementioned personality. Probably spared a couple of the good eggs to crack, too. Well, they'd have to start dying eventually. Only one good egg could live. Unless, of course, all the good eggs were cracked.

What with all the eggs when these were live pomeranian dogs? Who the hell knew.

As night abolished and dawn took a stand in the air and the morning scent of life took into hearts, a childish and sweeter version of most Poms—Poms were not childish or sweet so this one had to be a miraculous substance—propped itself up tiredly—having spent the night frolicking with her lover; idiot—as it fashioned sticks and string and wove a fishing pole, somehow crafting a legit enough tool that, once plunged into the ocean, actually managed to nab a fish or two after half an hour of whining and cutely tugging at twine, her face flashing disappointment under each unhooked pretense. Until she caught one. Then another.

A miracle via the miracle. How miraculous.

At some point, it was assumed that Pom 20 flushed her shitty head out of the darkness of night and, after stopping by and meeting this cheery Pom 4, demolished one of her caught fish under sharp bites and gnawing, flickering, dragon-like tongue, as she was hungry and fuck using her own food when this gentle creature would so graciously allow her to devour her own. At some point, Pom 4 would possibly catch another fish or so, as she spent close to her entire day searching for finned food, and Pom 20 meandered onward, her gluttonous stomach growling under each stout step via her microscopically larger toes.

The day grew on, and those who could've sworn they detected the orange kindling of fires late into the night had gathered—two or three of them—into a dense gorge tunnel of mosses and ferns that led into a miniature baby clearing where an expectant and smirking Pom sat in the very center. How a fucking pomeranian recreated from such an idiot in the first place had enough brains to configure the middle of a closed space was charming alone.

She was a main character for a reason.

As the harmless three bumbled into apparently safe domains, their bodies alighted of flame and dirt and dust, soot, grass and its roots flew under the looks of a fountain as bodies and ashes alike spewed and trembled. An explosive or two had been hijacked underground; a plan wired into setting. Pom 14 was terrifyingly skilled at killing.

And fucking smart. Why was she so smart.

Giggling, the fluffy creature scattered under the overhang of branches and leaves, giving her a green, pockmarked appearance and marring her furry features as shadows dramatized what was assumed to be an evil face.

At some point in time, she may have run into the glutton, but she also may have not. Nobody was really paying attention to them as the gamemakers found it funnier that the one labeled Pom 5 was being chased by Pom 8 for some damn reason and the aforementioned was crying, the latter with its tongue lolling in playful banter. It was random and sent multiple dogs to the fire hydrant, laughing piteously and wiping at their eyes.

It just looked stupid that they, locked inside of a prison disguised as a forest, had such a giddy expression, that at least one stupid puffball had so little sense as to practically celebrate her occasion. At some point they'd probably be fried by some idiot or another. Pom 5... well, who knew with Pom 5. First night, spying on lovely lover Poms, second day, chased about lovingly by creepy pomeranian numeral 8. Someone wish the poor bitch luck with her strange life.

To mark off the end of the day, blown up in celebration like fireworks, Pom 20, overridden of food and the thought of friendship with kind Pom 4, took a rock and hammered it into some useless sucker's face, leaving the fourth of fifth corpse of the day rotting in a bloody sunset. Somewhere along the water's line, a single Pom attempted to convince Pom 3, fierce and protective of her adorable fishing and failing lover, to sip some cup of poison she'd brought along, but Pom 3 felt like drinking out of the water because her lover's face had freshwater streaking down its muzzle too, and hey, why the hell not.

Then the Pom drank her own poison and died on it.

Yeah. Lovely.

Over the course of the next flash of days and nights, more unimportant pomeranians dropped like flies to the onslaught of Pom 14 or perhaps nature took its course because some of them were still stupid enough to kill by perhaps tripping over a rock and them stumbling down a cliff. Or falling into a frozen lake and drowning. Those sensible enough had it coming for them.

So that was pretty much all that the fourteenth of the Poms, of District Seven, got done. She murdered fellow pomeranians, plotted more murder, then killed some more, because why the hell not. One magical night or another steered her into the forest and brought to her upon the greatest pomeranian to ever exist because of her kind, adorable sweetness—namely the fourth one—and she conversed with her lover and she as well and accepted their combined kindness, as well befriending the odd duo and learning that maybe not everyone had to die. She dropped her guard for a time after that and killed somewhat less, especially checking the laminated black tags prior to raising her paws, just in case one of them happened to be a third or fourth. Yeah, she had a heart. A small heart, confined to a tiny portion of her ribcage for her new hunger to kill the other pomeranians and keep protected those that actually fit into her heart, but still a heart. A heart for Pom 3 and for Pom 4.

Oh? One missing.

Yep.

Pom fucking 20 as well.

A strange anomaly, she did an awful lot of bumbling about the place amid her pack of foods, as well as her new collection of weaponry. The strange finding and cherishing of pointy silver was never found or explained until after the excited bashing of that one guy's brain. Then shiny biters began to fall into her paws, and she continually visited her "home" as in the cornucopia, and thus, she soon had an impressive set of biters. Why? How the hell was anyone supposed to know? Maybe her newfangled affection for Pom 14 made her ominously enjoy killing the other Poms so that she could keep her safe. It was the most logical conclusion.

Then again, logic sent perfectly fine pomeranians into frozen lakes to die, so maybe it wasn't all that needed.

Either way, she started with meeting a tear-stricken Pom 5, who was for some reason still sobbing and filling her fur with salty, briny tears that weighed down her fluffy self and made her more rock than living creature. She begged to be killed.

Although tempted, Pom 20 thought of her buddy Pom 4, so she lumbered off without giving an answer. The next day she killed someone with her new favorite sais. Then she suddenly became friends with Pom 5 and, seeing she hadn't been crying anymore for some strange reason, lumbered off into who-knows-where. At this point or so, it was specifically noted that the glutton took favor in Pom 3 and her lover and Pom 14 as well, who happened to be in the area. They seemed to share a special relation, or at least it looked like they did, as pomeranians were pretty fucking hard to read. All throughout random Poms killing random Poms and Pom 14 sending a multitude to death and Pom 20 being an overall fatass dumbass, the lovers showed their lover affections in the most strangest of ways.

When one felt joy, the other smiled. When one felt down, the other began to sob. When one was afraid, the other screamed out in the middle of the night. Yes, so connected.

And when one wakes up from nightmares, the other nearly dies in a battle with fucking Pom 8, later stabbed to death by Pom 5 because Pom 5 reasons; and when one decides not to check out the cornucopia when some dog or another announces it has been refilled, the other snags some raw meat and tackles past a Pom or two as Pom 20 goes crazy stabbing with her new sais in the background; and when one constructs a shack, the other picks flowers; and when one searches a cave, the other stabs the unfortunate Pom trying to get in at her lover.

Gee, wonder why they were so in love.

Hard to tell.

No that wasn't sarcasm at all.

As pomeranians forged bonds that would last far longer than the amount of time they had left to life, a fire-faced freak began to boil from the heart in crusty ashes of sparks. Gritting her teeth, planning her own illogical path, Pom 5, microscopically sexier than all other Poms, set out to ruin lives and then maybe kill some too because sure why not. After sighting those stupid lovers, especially with sweet Pom 4 when _obviously_ the fifth deserved to be protected by Pom 3—the hon didn't know what romance had to do with, see, poor blind bastard—she set out a spindly plan that would allow her to trade her way into inner circles, once enough good eggs cracked, once enough flies dropped, once enough pomeranian corpses had been hauled off from their prison, and net her what she felt like she deserved.

It was here that palpable showings of how possibly unfair this trap had to be for creatures that proved to actually have souls. As in the four that had become fast friends or lovers.

Hint. Hint.

She started by frolicking, after that whole Pom-20-please-kill-me incident, and, whence the cornucopia's replenishing occurred, and Pom 20 got herself a sais and stabbed someone to death, and Pom 3 protected her lover by keeping she at home while she snagged some raw meat for her—how romantic—Pom 5 netted a tree branch and, remember that absolutely random fucking Pom 8?

She stopped existing after that lively encounter.

Then, stepping out of the kiddie pool and harping upon deeper waters now, she meandered by the glutton and asked her if she would like any food. Yes, she was somewhat smart or caring, one of the two, maybe a little bit of one. Well, it didn't work this time, as Pom 20 went off to assist Pom 14 in sculpting her own spears out of tree bark, but a random, straggling follower of the glutton in hopes of scrounging some food as she was starving, well, it worked on that poor sucker.

Only she had to trade the food for something she did own.

Something kind of sort of important to her.

Something that left Pom 17 sobbing like a little nincompoop in the middle of the dreary woodland in the middle of the night, only to turn heartless and rabid come morning and attempt to kill _fucking harmless Pom 4 as she emptied out a damn cave._ Thus was murdered by her protective lover.

Later that night, as three of four friends or lovers made with merry banter, Pom 5 scuttled off into the dark of night and found herself a gentle creature bathing in moonlight as she frolicked. Confrontation; then Pom 4's inability to fight back; then sudden truce. Pom 4 rejoined her friends with the frolicking of dearest friendship and romance soon after. Days passed.

Lovers did lover deeds and matched up with their creepy corresponding connection: Pom 3 cried out for help; Pom 4 was suddenly delivered a first-aid kit.

Darkness began to dwell and the miraculous told her protective lover she was off for fishing again in the dark. She had a strange liking to attempting to catch water creatures. Perhaps she enjoyed the serene sense of moonlight cloaking her, lover watching carefully and smiling as she did this, or maybe it was—no, it had to do with the imagery of her guardian angel keeping her safe from the light of the dark. And night wore on and on and on and gave out bruises, a glinting, curved metal saw a number and stabbed.

A glutton soon had scarlet dressing her paws.

That fucking sais she so cherished to the heart, and all of that miraculous mirth drained out in blood. Of course, she didn't recognize Pom 4, as it was dark out, and she'd been eating food with Poms 3 and 14 and 4 as well earlier, and two nights ago a certain bitch had switched number tags with her. So it wasn't all that obvious. For an ephemeral, bleary moment, her fuzzy brain poked at her microscopically fat belly and probed whether she had done something bad, and then, shaking it off massively, trod on, for she did not recognize what she had done. Not yet.

Day and night blurred. All other insolent pests eliminated, only four remained. A protective and steadfast creature broke into dawn and searched mindlessly, numbly, through tree and thicket and pine cone and splinter, down to the soil on the earth, as her blood ran cold and she began to realize that someone was missing from her life. From the very second love met twisted silver, the protective lover understood something bad had happened. She asked one faraway figure for help and she tried to lead her astray, when exhaustion took in. Tired and worried, frantic and distressed, fear began to physically show reign over her face and her body slumped as she tirelessly ran through bark and bonked her head, and it was obvious she was failing.

A killer, having no one left to kill, cleaned her scarlet nails and set to search as well. She saw her life stretch and blur before her very own eyes until the scuff of orange-peel paw on earthen soil sent her into a homely shack that she thought she recognized. She once had. The occupant had changed; she once had. Softly calling, the once-killer's heart beat wildly as the door creaked open and someone stood and peered into her slippery, wet gaze, and someone giggled above her stolen lamination.

Life had gone still for the final member of their beloved brigade. She certainly felt the patched loss in her heart although she couldn't quite recognize why. Felt dizzy. Weird. Discombobulated. Like body had left flesh behind and now the universe looked half-dead, half-hallucinated, half-dreary and half-fake now, too. Her stomach growled, but she'd lost her appetite—the leaf-green bag had gone missing from her back some time ago. In a hopeless last resort, she stared up at some point into the midnight stars, as someone she vaguely remembered once did, and they came down on her like a crooked sais. A squeal, and dog fled. Foot met twig and a fishing pole nigh splintered under a gluttonous paw, and she gently took the tool and stared at it.

Oh wait. Oh. Wait.

It kind of settled inside of her by then. Pom 20, heavy on her fat, dumb feet, drew a long trail into a meadow of flowers, a wooden home nestled in the midst, and gently knocked.

Somehow, that knocked a gaze out of the killer's eyes and nails met neck, and then she was no more.

Dawn approached.

Eggshell blue sky peeling overhead, Pom 14 finished off her kill. She snarled and gnashed teeth and slashed, slashed, slashed, but the wounds in her tiny heart wouldn't heal.

A glutton and a protector sat staring at a fishing pole as its stringed innards and twisted spine snapped, as Pom 20 held it too precariously. It all fell down on her and Pom 3 collapsed like a puppet, pleading and pointing at her own neck, begging and gesticulating toward the pole that had long met its end days that felt like eons ago. She couldn't do it, though. It was the second time someone had begged the glutton, but the glutton couldn't kill. Not like this. This was... this was someone she loved, asking not for forgiveness but to be torn into a marred, sludgy death.

Somehow, betwixt icy tears that licked furry faces, an agreement was reached, and the only of the four still sane enough was notified.

Because one deserved it and would never live it down; because the other would never truly breathe life again: they met their end together beneath the icy, watery surge of pain that held them.

It was determined that the winner of The Pomger Games was the killer, but by then, her face churned by emotion, her heart bursting at the seams, having demolished any hunger for kill until it had died inside of her, she was never found.

Missing?

Four souls met inside of the gates of a place where doges could live forever under the effulgent breath of kindness, and they apologized for what they had done.

And it would be okay, in the end. It would be okay for the four that held hearts in their chests and provided what nobody else had.: their personalities were obvious traits enough of it. Their laminated tickets to a better place.

 **Heh... yeah, that story's a little messed up... xD And sad, too... I don't know where this puts Poms 3, 4, 14, and 20, but... they're in a better place now, somehow, I suppose.**

 **What happened to the others? Gone. -shrugs- Didn't really exist by the end of it, in a way...**

 **Welp, I trust you enjoyed~!**


End file.
